


cost / benefit / analysis

by forsyte



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Beholding Tendencies, Eavesdropping, Gen, Humor, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:21:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24419584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsyte/pseuds/forsyte
Summary: The voices—two of them, one familiar, although Siobhan couldn’t quite put their finger on precisely who the speaker was—seemed to be arguing, they realized with no small amount of delight. It’d been a while since they’d overheard any properly interesting rows.“It’s the principle of the thing, Bouchard,” said the unfamiliar voice, and their thought process came to a screeching halt.--Doing chores to earn pocket money builds character. Or: the risks and rewards of eavesdropping.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas (implied)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68





	cost / benefit / analysis

The breakroom off of the library had a microwave, but Siobhan arrived to find a pathetic-looking OUT OF ORDER sign stuck on. The breakroom near the offices on the top floor of the building had a microwave, but strictly speaking it was off-limits to anyone other than the director, although no one’d ever seen him eat, and he had a nasty habit of showing up whenever anyone tried to use it. This left exactly one microwave in the entirety of the place that worked.

 _Thus it came to be that Siobhan descended into the valley of death_ , they thought, nervously making their way down the stairs that led to the Archives. The bricks had a chill to them no matter the season, and sounds seemed to echo oddly. The ever-present feeling of being watched, normally ignorable, was noticeably stronger, and the staff were—odd. The turnover rate was almost nonexistent. There should have been people leaving their jobs, working with other institutes, but there weren’t. No one left the Archives, except in a coffin. 

Shaking that thought off, they walked a little faster down the halls, glancing around, and when they slipped into the breakroom it was with a sense of relief. 

The microwave was in a strange alcove, half-filled with cleaning supplies and not easily seen from the main room. That part, at least, Siobhan didn’t mind; it was always eminently satisfying to eat their cup noodles in peace and quiet, without Mike from the accounting department cornering them with the latest problem he’d cooked up with their work habits, and if they liked the way the occasional fellow visitors to the breakroom startled upon realizing they weren’t alone then, well, they never claimed to be a _saint._ They’d overheard some interesting conversations, too.

A minute into waiting impatiently for their ramen to become merely mildly painful in temperature rather than actively perilous, they heard voices nearing the breakroom and tucked themself into the darkest corner of the alcove, against the cool bricks. The voices—two of them, one familiar, although they couldn’t quite put their finger on _precisely_ who the speaker was—seemed to be arguing, they realized with no small amount of delight. It’d been a while since they’d overheard any properly interesting rows. 

“It’s the principle of the thing, Bouchard,” said the unfamiliar voice, and Siobhan’s thought process came to a screeching halt. Bouchard. _Elias Bouchard._ Of course the other voice sounded familiar, it belonged to _the Head of the Institute._ And he didn’t seem particularly happy, which made this either the best or the worst conversation they could have picked to listen in on. They pressed closer to the wall. 

“My time is not to be valued so cheaply, Mr. Keay,” replied the director acidly.

A long, somehow pointed slurping noise, as if the man were sipping coffee _sarcastically_. “Not my fault you’re not willing to put your back into it.” They could hear the smile in the man’s voice when he followed that up with, “That’s a big chunk of my income, you know. Not all of us are lucky enough to have a sugar daddy.”

“A su—” the director sighed. They could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “First of all—”

“Don’t wanna hear it, Bouchard,” the man sing-songed. “Don’t know exactly what you two get up to in your free time, don’t care. Either you’re getting down on your hands and knees or you’re not getting a cent from me.” _What._

A long pause. Another sigh, resigned this time rather than exasperated, and then the rustle of cloth. Siobhan stood frozen against the wall, wondering desperately if they could somehow escape before whatever the hell was going on started without getting killed for knowing too much. 

Footsteps approached the alcove, and before they could hide, the Head of the Institute stepped around the corner, wearing an expression of martyrdom, his jacket draped over his shoulder and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He seemed utterly unsurprised to see them.

“Mx. Reilly,” he said, stone-faced, and then sidestepped them—just barely, and Siobhan recognized the proximity as spiteborn and deliberate. Huh. They hadn't thought he was the type—and bent to retrieve a dilapidated scrub brush, hung from the wall, and the bucket next to it. 

He'd said Mx. They checked their name tag discreetly, but it hadn't changed. That was— 

“Oh?” Mr. Keay said from the next room, gleeful and closer than before, and Siobhan looked up into the face of the Institute’s resident urban legend.

The man that leaned against the alcove entrance, beaming, was not quite familiar but _certainly_ recognizable. He had shoulder-length hair dyed black (recently, if the purple-stained ears weren’t just another fashion statement) and eyeliner caked heavy and cracked around his lashes, and he wore a worn, dark leather coat nearly down to his ankles over knee-length boots, ripped jeans and a bright pink shirt reading GOT EYES? in light yellow. Chipped black nail polish adorned his hands, wrapped around an enormous iced coffee. 

Siobhan took this all in, clutching their ramen, and vaguely regretted leaving their phone at their desk. Getting a decent-quality picture of him would have been bragging rights for sure.  
“Lucky you,” said the subject of half the more ridiculous rumors flying around, “just in time for lunch _and_ a show.” He winked at them and stepped aside to let the director pass. For one whole second they considered taking the opening and fleeing, and then they put down their lunch and minced closer to the entrance to get a better look at the Head doing—huh. Janitor work, from the looks of it. 

He didn’t respond, they noted. Not as he filled the bucket from the grungy sink opposite the vending machines, not until he knelt in his spotless slacks to begin scrubbing at the hideous stain that covered an intimidatingly large section of the floor and the trenchcoated man, having been rummaging one-handed in a pocket, triumphantly produced a Polaroid camera, and then he said, “How is your mother, Gerard?”

The man— _Gerard Keay?_ Something about that name seemed familiar—tensed, shifted upright. His grip tightened on the camera, pale knuckles stark against the eyes inked across them. A sore spot, then. “Been keeping tabs on her?” he shot back, sharper by far than the needling he’d been enjoying earlier. “Didn’t think she was your type, being dead and all.” 

Siobhan looked sidelong at him. It was hard to see at first, past the shock of his appearance, but a second glance caught bags under his eyes, his weary slump against the bricks, the slightly greasy sheen to his roots. There was an old brownish stain on his shirt, half-hidden by the thick chain around his neck, and his boots were lightly coated in dust. He was older than they’d thought at first blush. Not sure how they knew that. Something around the eyes, maybe? 

And he hung around the Head Archivist, and Siobhan recognized that particular shade of rust as washed-out blood. His coat was torn viciously around the ankles, like it'd been clawed into tatters.

They looked away. 

“This doesn’t need to be difficult,” the director answered, a non sequitur if not for the way he sat back on his heels and stared straight at the pair of them. Something felt weird about this conversation, off, like they were missing context, but whatever it was they couldn’t quite pick it up. “Siobhan, I don’t suppose you carry cash?” 

“Bit of an abuse of power there,” Gerard said, before Siobhan could think anything other than _how the hell does he know my first name?_ “Not your employees’ responsibility to keep you in Soylent and all that.” 

“Um,” they said, stalling, because like hell were they getting involved with anything going on here. “Sorry, no, I don’t—and I don’t have my bag with me, I just came down here to microwave my lunch. The other microwave is broken, by the way, did you know about that? I don’t know if anyone’s made complaints yet.” 

“Off your game, Bouchard,” added Gerard, which didn’t bode well for Siobhan enjoying a long and healthy retirement. “Thought knowing everything around here was your job.” 

“Strange though it may seem, managing the daily finances of the Institute takes precedent over the functionality of nonessential equipment. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention.”

“Managing finances,” came the comment from the peanut gallery, mock-thoughtful. “Is _that_ what they’re calling them these days—”

“The microwave on the top floor of the Institute is in working condition,” the director said, cutting him off. It took Siobhan a perilously long time to realize that the comment was addressed to them, and they nodded, not trusting their voice, and snatched their ramen off the microwave. 

“Sending away the witness? I still have photographic evidence,” Gerard said as they brushed past him. They skirted the patch of clean floor as fast as they could physically walk, and were out of the room before they could hear the reply. 

Pros: tacit permission to use the good microwave, a name to the weird goth who hung around the Archives, a practically un-fucking-beatable story. 

Cons: Couldn't go back to that alcove for a while. Possibly ever. Also, might get killed by the Head of the Institute for knowing too much. 

They folded themself a little more protectively around the Styrofoam cup they held and sipped at the broth. Worth it, probably.

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot be held responsible for this.  
> love this? hate it? #same. comment below or harass me at [my blog.](https://morguecrow.tumblr.com) thanks and damnation as always to [dysprositos.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysprositos/profile)


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